


Dancing to the Silence (the Rhythm of My Bones' Decay)

by aeveee



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-02 23:59:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2830730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeveee/pseuds/aeveee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trust me, Root says. Shaw doesn’t know if those are her words or the Machine’s.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dancing to the Silence (the Rhythm of My Bones' Decay)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [meteoritecrater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/meteoritecrater/gifts), [canvasbug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/canvasbug/gifts).



> Written for Tumblr users meteoritecrater and tumblnonymous. Title taken from ‘Tear You Down’ by RAC ft. Alex Ebert. A slightly alternate timeline that runs through the back half of Season 3.

There is a specific smile that Root gets when she’s speaking with the Machine.

_I love it when you do that; no, I wasn’t talking to you._

Sometimes, Root’s eyes will drop onto Shaw as she’s listening to the Machine. Her gaze is slightly unfocused, lips spread into a lazy smile. Shaw will watch as Root hums a little under her breath and the hold on her gun seems to slacken.

And then she will watch as the Machine goes silent and Root snaps back, hand tight around the gun and eyes a bright that is sharp.

“Like what you see?”

Shaw sometimes wonders which Root she’ll get when she finally gives in to that absent ache between her legs. She remembers the heat of Root’s gaze right before she lowered the hot iron onto Shaw’s skin, the way Root had shivered at the hiss of burning metal on flesh.

“You know it,” Shaw says drily and Root’s smile is textbook predatory.

\--

Shaw shifts the gun in her hand; the air is a brittle cold that makes her stiffen, slows her reflexes. Their latest excursion is in the inevitable gunfight stage and Root is being less than helpful.

“Come on,” Shaw says. Root stops staring mid-distance and turns to look at Shaw, eyes still wide and expression dreamy.

“She says we need to wait for three minutes, then take the door to the far right.”

The only acknowledgement Shaw gives is a grunt. Moving her free hand into the folds of her coat, Shaw pulls her spare gun from the small of her back and hands it to Root.

“Won’t need that,” Root says. Her breath is warm against Shaw’s ear, too close as always. Shaw watches as Root takes the offered gun, trails a finger over the barrel before slowly slipping it back into the waistband of Shaw’s pants. Root’s fingertips linger a few seconds too long and Shaw jerks away.

“Was that really necessary?”

“Three minutes are up,” Root says, all teeth. Before Shaw can reply, she hears a burst of gunfire followed by heavy footsteps and the sound of three bodies dropping. “Oh, and Reese is here.”

Shaw’s face splits into a wide grin, “Should have led with that.”

Root just shrugs.

Shaw takes the opportunity to move Root behind her before she swings open the door and clears the space in front, gun steady. Two quick shots take out the man just rounding the corner, another incapacitates the one turning around to face them. At the far end of the hallway, Reese strikes a broad figure against the flickering lights. “Right door, end of the hall, right?”

Root hums, strides out from behind Shaw and grins at her as she passes. “Are you going to thank me?”

“For what?”

“Early Christmas present from me to you,” Root says. The words are almost a purr and Shaw rolls her eyes. She’s about to tell Root what she can do with that ‘early Christmas present’ when Root’s eyes abruptly lose focus and Shaw watches as the cheshire grin on Root’s lips slips into a softer, hazy smile.

“Somewhere you need to be?” Shaw asks. She can just make out the eyebrow Reese has raised in question and she makes a quick hand motion at Root, shrugging. A corner of Reese’s lips ticks up as he shrugs back.

“Sorry, Shaw. Guess the present will have to wait.”

“Oh, woe is me,” Shaw deadpans. Root gives her an unimpressed look and steps in close, pressing something hard and cold into Shaw’s free hand. Shaw barely feels it over the heat of Root’s body against her own. She resists the urge to step away, determined not to be the first one to give in.

“Keep it safe for me?” is all Root says before she smiles wide, dips her head low just once so her nose brushes against Shaw’s and turns on her heel. Shaw watches Root daintily step over the body of the man Shaw shot, absentmindedly kicking the gun away. Root’s exit via the fire escape is quiet and efficient.

“Did she say where she was going?” Reese says as he pulls up to where Shaw is standing. Shaw looks down at her hand, at the black run-of-the-mill hard drive resting in her palm.

“You know how she is. Machine calls and she goes running. Like a dog.”

“You like dogs,” Reese reminds her. Shaw scoffs, drops the hard drive in her coat pocket before raising her gun again.

“Not this one.”

The only thing Reese gives is a hum, and the sheer amount of disbelief he puts into it makes Shaw want to grind her teeth.

\--

When they next see each other, Root holds a hot dog out to Shaw, lips curled vaguely in distaste. The bread is soggy from the wait, overflowing with jalapenos and onions.

“Hey, thanks,” Shaw says, taking almost half the hot dog in her mouth before biting down. She comes away with ketchup streaked down her chin and Root sighs, hands her a napkin.

“Do you always have to eat like it’s your last meal?”

“Some of us acknowledge that it’s a possibility,” Shaw says. She finishes the hot dog in two massive bites and wipes at her mouth, crumpling the napkin and tossing it into a nearby trash can. “So? Is this a new trick of yours? Disappear and then reappear with food for me?”

Root smiles, a soft, coy thing that makes Shaw’s skin crawl. Her head is dipped just so, teeth a hint of white behind chapped lips. “If it’s something you want,” Root lilts, then laughs when Shaw rolls her eyes. “You know how I love to make you happy.”

“Get to the point,” Shaw grinds.

Root motions for Shaw to follow her and Shaw shoves her hands into her pockets, fingering the ridge of her handgun’s grip. Root glances over her shoulder to check that Shaw has fallen into step behind her before she asks, “Have you given the hard drive to Harold yet?”

“Says he can’t get past the encryption,” Shaw answers. “Don’t think you’re all that,” she adds when she sees the grin beginning to spread on Root’s face, “I only gave it to him yesterday.”

“And you must all be dying to know what’s on there,” Root laughs.

“Not particularly.”

Root hums, looking over her shoulder again to smile that self-assured, indulgent smile that Shaw hates. They pass an old woman walking with a bag of groceries in one hand and the hand of an elementary school child clasped in the other. A man walking his dog stops so Shaw can crouch down and ruffle its fur. A couple across the street bicker loudly. When they reach an opening in the fence beside them, Shaw is hardly surprised that Root stops, places a gloved hand on top of the railing and says, “This is me.”

“Finch is worried that you’re spending too much time off the grid.”

“Is he? He got further into that hard drive than he’s telling you,” Root says. Shaw nods, having suspected as much. “You can ask me, you know.”

“Why? So you can not answer me?” Shaw shoots back. She still remembers the taunting _trust me_ she’d gotten the last time she’d bothered; Shaw isn’t the kind of woman to fall for the same trick twice.

Except Root is close, and the lines of her face seem so much harder than the last time Shaw had seen them. Where there had been nonchalance and annoyingly fake affection instead lies a kind of quiet discomfort that sits wrong on Root, and the fact that Shaw can see it gives her pause. Ultimately, she takes the bait.

“Is it something the Machine left you?”

“Good guess,” Root smiles. She doesn’t offer anything after that and Shaw has half the mind to walk away until Root finally says, “All the time off the grid has given me some space to think.”

“Always a good thing,” Shaw mutters under her breath at the same time Root says:

“Samaritan is a threat that Harold doesn’t seem to be taking seriously enough. I thought I’d build in a few precautions of my own.” Root sighs. “Do you ever question why Harold seems so bent on believing his greatest creation could only do wrong when She has always worked to help us?”

Shaw shifts under Root’s gaze, a steady weight on her. “I don’t make it my business to question Finch and his technology mumbo jumbo. And anyway, has the Machine only ever done good things? You’ve shot a lot of people, Root. So have I.”

“But we’ve protected a lot of people,” Root says, stepping into Shaw’s personal space and running her hands along Shaw’s biceps. Her voice skips slightly as she adds, “She helps me protect people. Sometimes in place of protecting Herself. How is that not good?”

“Depends on how you judge good,” Shaw replies easily. Her arms are starting to goosebump under Root’s attention and she shifts a little. Root’s hands drop.

“I anticipated that you would say that.”

“Then why ask?” Shaw says, and she stands perfectly still while Root watches her, eyes dark. Root’s lips fold into a frown.

“Tell Harold that he needs to keep what he finds to himself.”

“What?” Shaw reaches out to grab Root’s arm as Root turns away, “Is this some sort of petty payback for what I said earlier?”

“No,” Root drawls, teeth a blinding white. Her expression snaps into something harsh moments later and Shaw blinks, unused to the hostility. “Don’t think you’re so important.”

“Root –”

“The Machine needs me at a warehouse several blocks from here in two minutes. I don’t like to be late.”

Shaw lets Root slip out of her hold, fingers slack against Root’s taut muscles, and watches as Root walks away. Later, when she asks Harold if he found anything on the hard drive, Harold’s face takes on a pale cast. His voice is steady when he answers, though. Shaw can’t tell if Harold is getting better at lying, or if the truth upsets him.

“She put a bunch of alternate identities for herself on there?”

Harold nods. “To what end, I haven’t the slightest idea. I was hoping you may have better insight as Ms. Groves left the hard drive in your care?”

Shaw scoffs, tugs on her beanie and motions for Reese that she’s ready. “Sorry, Finch. I don’t speak Root as well as you think I do.”

“I see,” Harold says, and he sounds the kind of speculative that makes Shaw uneasy. She shrugs it off when Reese raises an eyebrow at her from the door. “Go, Ms. Shaw. Mr. Reese and our number can’t afford to wait any longer than absolutely necessary.”

“I’ll let you know if Root tells me anything else,” Shaw says before she turns away. Harold waits until she and Reese have exited, the door automatically locking behind them, before switching screens to scroll through the folders on Root’s hard drive.

He hadn’t lied to Shaw when he had said Root had amassed several alternate identities for herself. The three folders he had carefully failed to mention sit at the end, nestled behind a note from Root herself.

_Hi Harry,_

_If you’re reading this, I hope you can forgive the lack of creativity in choosing your new names. I’ve always rather liked the ring of Finch but beggars can’t be choosers. Perhaps you can consider this incentive? I’m sure this goes without saying, but keep this just between me, you, and Her, please._

Sameen Gray. Harold Whistler. John Riley.

Harold clicks on the folder labelled ‘Harold Whistler’ and watches a new life unfold.

\--

When Root presses up against her, the thin material of their dresses doing nothing to keep the heat of Root’s skin at bay, Shaw lets a sultry smile spread across her lips before nosing into Root’s hair. Her fingers link behind the nape of Root’s neck as Root’s hands drift to the small of her back. Shaw can feel a pinky skim just above her ass.

“I thought you were mad at me.”

“I am,” Root whispers. The words fall hot on the shell of Shaw’s ear and Shaw pushes closer, lips finding the curve of Root’s neck. Root’s pulse is thick and slow.

“Sure doesn’t feel like it,” Shaw says. She mouths at Root’s pulse point in time to the beat and feels Root shift against her, the heat between them ratcheting up several degrees. From a hazy distance, she hears Reese’s voice in her ear: _The number just left to go upstairs. I’m going to follow; rendezvous in fifteen._

Almost immediately, Shaw shoves Root from her, ignoring how Root stumbles a little and bounces off of the couple behind her.

“Was that really necessary?” Root asks, annoyance drifting across her features as she straightens her dress.  Shaw stalks off of the dance floor, not bothering to check whether Root is following. The faint scent of Root’s perfume tells her Root has stayed close.

“What are you doing here? Did the Machine decide it was time to get the stick out of your ass?”

“I thought I was the one who was mad,” Root snipes. They reach the bar and Root signals the bartender for two martinis, ignoring Shaw’s look of disgust as she pushes one onto the coaster in front of her. Root gives the bartender a wink – there are three olives speared in her glass – before watching Shaw throw the martini back. “It’s not a shot.”

“I don’t care,” Shaw says. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. The neckline of Shaw’s dress dips into her cleavage with the movement, and Root lets her gaze linger before she focuses on the sharp lines of Shaw’s face. “Finch said the hard drive is full of fake IDs, all with your face on them. Care to explain?”

“I see you didn’t pass my message on to Harry.”

“Answer the question, Root,” Shaw growls. The music is loud, bass hard enough to rumble through ribcages but Shaw manages to hear Root as if they were sitting in silence. Something about the way Root is holding herself makes Shaw pay closer attention, makes Shaw catalogue the shift of Root’s eyes, the dip of her throat.

“They’re for when Samaritan comes online.”

“I thought you said you were doing everything possible to prevent that. That _we’re_ doing everything possible.”

Root sips at her martini. There is a ring on Root’s finger tonight, and Shaw watches it flicker in the bar lights before Root seems to catch her watching and shifts her free hand to cover it. “Do you believe in faith, Shaw?”

“Faith like what, marriage?”

Root smiles into her drink, puts it down onto the coaster and slips the ring off, holds it up for Shaw to see. Shaw can tell the diamond is real, the band an intricate piece of woven platinum that looks out of place at a bar. She watches Root twirl the ring between her fingers as she says, “Faith in a higher being. In a greater purpose.”

“You’re asking if I believe in the Machine.”

Root nods. “In the way I believe in Her.”

The lights play off of Root’s face. Glittery eyeshadow gives the illusion that Root’s eyes are brighter than they are and the tired lines of her face are hidden partially by the grey of the club. Shaw thinks she should consider her answer carefully but the fifteen minutes Reese gave her are ticking in her head and in the end, she doesn’t.

“I don’t believe in the Machine; I believe in people. I believe in people who are good at what they do, and from where I stand, Reese and Finch, you and I, even Fusco, we are the best at what we do. I’m not going to say that I have faith the Machine will get us through whatever this Samaritan bullshit is, but I think if it’s us, we have a fighting chance.” Root is watching her with dark eyes, her back ramrod straight. Shaw catalogues the way Root’s hands clench and unclench.

“You think we’re better than Her?”

“I think the Machine is a machine, and we can do better,” Shaw says.

Root pushes away from the bar counter, movements jerky. “Reese is going to be six minutes early to the rendezvous.”

Before Shaw can ask, gunfire sounds from the upper floors of the club and Reese’s voice bursts into Shaw’s ear: the number has been shot, they’re headed for the back exit and Reese needs an extraction plan and for Shaw to be ready to patch the number up. Shaw’s muscles coil in response but she holds herself still, watches Root stand against the flow of panicking club patrons.

“What is this about, Root? Having a crisis of faith?”

“Something like that,” Root says. She holds the ring out, “Give this to Harold. He’ll know what to do with it.”

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to buy you an insurance policy,” Root answers before she lets the crowd sweep her toward the exit. Shaw swears then begins to fight the flow, heading for the back exit and yelling to Reese that she’s on her way.

The number ends up safe and back with her family by the end of the night, only a slight graze on her shoulder and not too worse for wear. When Shaw asks, Harold tells her the inscription on the inside of the ring:

_Indecision becomes decision with time._

The next day, they receive Congressman Robert McCourt’s number.

\--

Root finds Shaw in the aftermath while she’s alone in the office. Shaw’s bandages still need daily changing and Reese is working overtime on the streets, the numbers piling up in Finch’s absence and Shaw’s incapacitation.

“You like the pastrami, right?”

Shaw looks up and to find Root standing in the doorway, one hand hovering uncertainly on the door. There’s a brown bag clutched in the other. “Root.”

“I figured you for a spicy mustard kind of girl.”

Shaw ignores the diversion and instead focuses in on the way Root won’t look at her. “Where have you been?”

Root sighs. She takes the steps down, drops the paper bag on the table in front of Shaw and sinks onto the couch. Only then does she turn to look at Shaw, and Shaw is taken aback by the redness of Root’s eyes. “You didn’t kill him.”

“No,” Shaw says, gathering up the dirty bandages and moving to get up. Root holds her hand out and Shaw lets her take the bandages, watches as Root walks to throw them away. The sandwich sits in the paper bag, warm and enticing, but Shaw can’t bring herself to take it out. “When you asked me if I believe, did you already know all of this was going to happen?”

Root doesn’t answer at first. They sit beside each other, silent, and Shaw watches the way Root twists her fingers over and over. Finally, Root opens her mouth and her voice is quiet, tired. “It was Harold who said no, in the end, wasn’t it. I assume you and Reese both saw the logical solution, but Harold has always been needlessly sentimental.”

“Can’t say I don’t agree,” Shaw says. Finch would have probably answered that saving a life is neither needless nor sentimental, but Shaw has never really cared. Her time with Finch and Reese has only taught her that there may be different reasons for taking lives – some perhaps more readily accepted than others – but they all still end in a dead body. “You never answered my question.”

“I didn’t know,” Root says. She looks away from Shaw for a moment, watches Bear lap at his water bowl and hums at the sight. “I didn’t know exactly what would happen. She never would give me all of the details. I knew there would be a hard choice and I needed you all to believe in Her, though. To keep Samaritan offline, I needed you all to believe in Her the way I do.”

Shaw shrugs. “I don’t think any of us are capable of that, Root.”

“You said you trusted in Her, didn’t you?” Root asks. Her eyes are sharp. “That the Machine has always done what She could to help you protect people.”

“I said a lot of things that night,” Shaw says dismissively but Root shifts to face Shaw. Slowly, she drops a hand onto Shaw’s knee.

“The Machine is going to die if Samaritan goes online. Do you believe that?” Root’s voice dips ever so slightly, her pupils dilating, “Do you trust me?”

Shaw doesn’t answer. She lets Root stare at her, feels the heat of Root’s hand through her jeans. At some point, Root shifts closer until their bodies are flush against one another. The wound in Shaw’s leg twinges at the contact.

“If you’re going to kiss me, kiss me.” Shaw husks. Root’s head dips lower in response and Shaw can feel Root’s breath on her, but their lips never touch.

“I need you to trust me.”

Shaw tries to close the distance but Root jerks away. Her pupils are blown, the tongue that Root runs across her lips is deliberately slow. Still, Root holds herself back and keeps Shaw still with a hand against her thigh.

“I hate it when you say that,” Shaw growls. Root seems to take it as an answer that it really isn’t and Shaw opens her mouth to tell her but Root shakes her head, smiles something crooked.

“The Machine says we don’t have much time left. I have a lot of things to prepare.”

“Does your Machine know where Finch is?”

Root stands, trails her fingers along Shaw’s leg as she does. Shaw resists the urge to catch Root’s hand and tug her back down, to finish what she started. Instead, she watches Root carefully take the sandwich out from the paper bag and place it on the table. “If you can’t believe in Her, then at least believe in me.”

“I believe in Finch, Root. Where is he?”

Root shakes her head just once before walking out the door. Shaw doesn’t eat the sandwich.

\--

In the end, it hits Shaw like a bullet to the gut.

“Root is going to get herself killed.”

Reese looks at her, sees the way her fingers are tight around the sat phone. He recognizes the desperation scrawled across her face as the kind he had and still feels: knowing Finch is in danger, watching Joss leave. “Go.”

Root takes the bike Hersch holds out for her and pedals hard even though the frame is too big.

_To keep Samaritan offline, I needed you all to believe in Her the way I do._

Shaw curses, her foot slipping off of a pedal and sending a jolting pain up her leg before she gets it back on again. Root may believe in her God with an absolute, blind kind of trust, but all Shaw can see is the Machine’s silence and Root’s broken body on the ground.

Shaw tries the sat phone but Root doesn’t answer.

\--

They all die.

Root crushes the black hard drive she must have gotten from the office at some point under her heel and Shaw pulls out her wallet from her coat pocket, throwing it into the flaming pile Root started.

“When you told me to trust you…”

“I still mean it,” Root says.

“You could have told me. You could have asked for help.”

Root shrugs. The last of their lives crackles and Root puts the fire out, motions for Shaw to get into the car. “I have the Machine. And anyway, you all had to keep Harold safe.”

When they part, Root’s eyes dark and heavy with a sadness that hadn’t been evident before, Shaw mouths: _You have me, now._

Root watches her go.

The Machine stays silent in her ear.


End file.
